


Home is Where Your Fine Ass Is

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, YAGKYAS, YAGKYAS 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray always gets Walt a little something when he gets back from a tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is Where Your Fine Ass Is

**Author's Note:**

> For YAGKYAS as a whole. Enjoy!

Ray surprises Walt with things when he comes back from tours and training. Once it was a whole bag of nothing but cherry Starbursts (Walt’s favorite). Once it was his old beater of a pick-up getting a full detail job like it was a brand new car (though it hadn’t been for a solid fifteen years). Once it was a limo, stocked with Miller Lite, and all they did was drive around and drink shit beer and go through the drive-thru at McDonald’s for the laugh (and a couple of bags of fries). Walt had been certain at the time that nothing would top the limo night.

And then Ray meets him at the airport with the deed to a fucking house.

“You bought me a house?” Walt asks, staring at the piece of paper. He’s jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, mouth still tasting like airplane coffee and sand. He and Ray have talked about this a few times, but the piece of paper in his hands feels like an elaborate joke.

“’Course I fucking did,” Ray replies like he’d bought new curtains or showed up with Walt’s favorite soda or not bought _a goddamned house_. He takes the deed from Walt, tilts Walt’s head, and kisses the hell out of him. “Come on, let’s get your gear and get home.”

Home, Walt thinks as he follows Ray without thinking. An actual home. A home that—

“You bought me a fucking house,” Walt says. “A house.”

“Yeah,” Ray says as they get on the escalator to get down to baggage claim. He’s a step below Walt. When he looks up at him, his eyes are huge, and the line of his neck looks vulnerable. “It’s a shitbox,” he says. “You’re welcome.”

Walt curls a hand around Ray’s neck and kisses him as hard as he can, holding it until they nearly brain themselves when they get to the bottom of the escalator and don’t step forward.

“Shit, homes,” Ray says, pulling away but staying within arms’ reach. “What would I have gotten if I’d gotten you a fine-ass mansion?”

Walt doesn’t answer, just grins at Ray as they shoulder their way to a good view of the baggage carousel.

*

“Wow,” Walt says when he gets out of the car and looks at the house. “It’s a total shitbox.”

The house is set on a rise in the middle of a huge yard surrounded by fields. There’s concrete steps leading up to it; they’re cracked and crumbling. The house itself is maybe-white under a layer of dirt and grime. Walt is pretty sure an extra-hard power washing won’t clear it completely. The roof is sagging in places, and it looks like the chimney is about to collapse.

“Basement’s a total rapehole,” Ray says. “But it’s got washer and dryer hookups, and the roof doesn’t actually leak and the floors are in good shape.”

Walt glances at him. Ray’s staring at the house, sunglasses keeping Walt from seeing his eyes, but it doesn’t stop Walt from reading the rest of him. Ray’s nervous, a little embarrassed, probably just now really realizing he’s bought his boyfriend a fucking house.

“I got six weeks,” Walt says, pulling Ray close and kissing his cheek. “We’ll get it all prettied up.”

*

Next morning, after breakfast, Walt slips on his oldest, most battered jeans, digs out an ancient high school t-shirt, and ends up having to holler to Ray to locate his work boots.

“I haven’t unpacked them yet!” Ray yells from the direction of the kitchen. “They’re in box marked W.W.S.”

“What the hell does that even stand for?” Walt yells in return as he locates the box on the bottom of a pile in their bedroom and opens it to find his work boots carefully tucked away around pair after pair of tube socks.

“Walt’s Work Shit.”

Of course, Walt thinks as he pulls on socks and boots. He turns towards the bedroom door and finds Ray standing there, dressed a lot like him except the t-shirt says “Nevada Tigers” and he’s still barefoot.

“There’s a shed out back,” Ray says. “I got your tools all set up in it already.”

“There’s a shed?” Walt can’t help but grin.

“It’s heated and shit,” Ray adds. “Propane, so we have to refill the tank when we need it. Guy who sold me the place said it takes about ten minutes to properly warm it up in winter but that once it’s warm, you can do all kinds of shit back there.”

Walt just manages not to say “wow” or “oh cool” or something equally ridiculous. He’s always wanted a shed to build things in or to fix things up. It’s one of those tiny little fantasies he’s kept tucked close and only told Ray maybe once.

“Attic’s in the third bedroom,” Ray adds. “Figured you’d want to start there to check the roof.”

“Yeah,” Walt agrees. “That sounds good.”

“I’m gonna stay down here,” Ray says. “Delivery guy is coming today.”

“With what?” Walt asks. All their furniture is here, and while it’s not enough to fill the place, Walt can’t think of a thing they need just yet.

“Washer and dryer,” Ray says. “We’re ten miles from the nearest Laundromat.”

It’s just distance, but something in Walt tightens in a warm, pleasant coil at the idea that it’s really a _house_ , and it’s going to have a washer and dryer, and Ray’s going to be here when he gets back from tours or from training or from _anything_ , and he feels like a sap and doesn’t care.

“Sap,” Ray says.

“Shut up,” Walt replies. He kisses Ray for the house, for being him, for just being here time and again no matter how long Walt’s deployed or how deep he gets in his own head sometimes. “Which one’s the third bedroom?”

“Across the hall from the library,” Ray says.

Walt wants to snort at “library,” but there’s floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, and they’re already full to bursting, so it can’t really be anything else. Ray’s got a tattered blue chair in there, a comfortably lumpy thing Walt remembers as far back as the first apartment of Ray’s he ever visited. He should get it reupholstered as a surprise at some point, he thinks. Maybe by Ray a new bedroom set. Maybe just propose already. Seems like the only real way to show how much it means to him that Ray has clearly decided they’re in this to the end. 


End file.
